The Minstrel of Doriath
by a.talking.dog
Summary: Daeron had always known his love for Lúthien was doomed, but he thought it was because Lúthien was too high and pure to love anyone. It turned out, she just didn't love him. The tale of Beren and Lúthien from Daeron's perspective. Now complete.
1. A Pipe Unseen

It was a still, clear, midsummer night. Daeron was perched in a tree, playing his flute. The wood of the flute was warm beneath Daeron's fingers, and the air he breathed was heavy with the scent of niphredil. In the clearing below him, Lúthien was dancing.

Lúthien lept and twirled through the evening air, light and ethereal. It was as though the world had no hold on her; she merely returned to the ground when she thought it fitting. What a blessing it was to have such a creature listen to his music Daeron thought, watching the way her skirts flowed over her long legs. She was an image of perfection in an otherwise imperfect world.

He loved her, it was well known. He did not see any need to keep that a secret; how could anyone see her and not love her? She did not feel the same for him of course. Daeron knew she was too far above this world for anything as terrestrial and physical as love. The perfect maiden was perfectly chaste, so he must be the same. Such was the cost of loving her. Others might settle for lesser beings, but not he. No, he was an artist, doomed to pursue unattainable perfection.

But at times like these, he felt as though he knew her as well as any could. He played in time to her dancing, and she danced in time to his music, until they could not be sure who was leading the other. They carried on that way as the sky faded from orange to black, and the stars were kindled above them, playing and dancing together as though they were of one mind. And when they heard the noise of some strange creature in the distance, they fled as one. But when they returned to the halls of Menegroth, they were separate again, and Daeron returned to his home alone.

That had been the pace of his life since before the first sunrise. It wasn't all he wanted, but it was familiar and routine. To him, it was enough.

Until one spring, he could not find her in the woods.


	2. The Pool of Melian

For the last few months, Lúthien had been disappearing early in the morning, not returning until late into the night. Some nights, Daeron had heard, she did not even return home at all. Only once, Daeron had happened to encounter her as she returned home late in the evening, but she would not say where she had been, only that she had been out in the woods. "The woods are so lovely this summer, Daeron," she had told him, but then she had slipped away. Daeron had not managed to speak with her again.

It was clear something was wrong, and Daeron was getting worried. Worried enough to do something drastic. So now he found himself before the door to Melian's chambers.

It was silly, he told himself, that he found Melian so frightening. She was his queen, the Maia wife of King Eru Thingol. Besides, how could the one who had bore Lúthien be anything but good. She was even very much like Lúthien in appearance. She had the same dainty nose, the same broad, heart-shaped face, the same thick, dark hair. But little things were off about her, Daeron thought, subtle reminders that her body was only an imitation of elves, not truly elven. The way her neck was just a little too flexible for example, or the way her fingers were just a little too long. But it was her eyes that Daeron found especially unsettling, too large, too dark, and far, far too deep. They made him feel like a frightened child again, lost and alone under the dark trees.

He took a deep breath, and knocked.

Melian opened the door silently and stood within the doorway. She stared at him curiously and cocked her head "Daeron!" she chirped, "This is unusual. You do not often visit me. Have you come to sing a song perhaps? You have such a lovely voice."

"I, well, no," he stammered, "I mean, I could, if you like, but that's not why I came."

"Oh," Melian said. Her head stayed turned to the side, and she continued to look questioningly at Daeron.

Daeron froze uncertainly, wondering if he should sing something. He decided against it. "I came because I am worried about Lúthien," he told Melian. "She has been acting very strangely, going out all day and long into the night, and no one I have spoken to knows why. I'm worried that she is in danger."

"You should not worry. She is in no danger," Melian said softly. Daeron began to relax a little, but then she continued, "Doom has fallen on her, but she is in no danger."

"Doom? What doom?"

"The same doom we all face: the doom of change," Melian explained sadly. "There is nothing quite as tragic as change," she said. A thoughtful look crossed her face. "Except, perhaps a lack of it. This world is strange like that."

Daeron was getting quite frustrated now. Something was wrong with Lúthien, and her mother was just standing in the doorway spouting cryptic riddles. "Would you at least tell me where she is?"

"She is not a child anymore, she does not need constant watching from her mother."

"Please, you must have some idea where she is," Daeron replied.

Melian leaned in closer and examined Daeron curiously. "You are worried," she observed. "Daeron, there is no reason to worry about something you cannot prevent. You cannot prevent this. Do not be worried."

"How can I not be worried when Lúthien is in danger?"

"She is in no danger," Melian reminded him.

Daeron did not see how someone could be doomed but in no danger, but he knew any explanation from Melian would be equally contradictory. He decided to switch tactics. "I would still feel better if I knew where she was," he told her.

"I am not so sure of that," Melian told him. "Although, surely you know your own mind better than I do. I hate to see you so worried. If you think it will make you feel better, I will help you to look." She stood aside and motioned for Daeron to enter.

Melian lead Daeron down a hallway into a large room with a wide, open window overlooking the trees. A shallow pool of white marble stood at the center. Many birds were bathing in it, but with a gesture from Melian they all flew away. She motioned for Daeron to sit beside the pool, which was now strangely still despite the large flock that had left it only moments before. She stood behind him and placed a long, white hand on the top of his head.

"Focus on what you wish to see, and look into the pool," she commanded. "Do not touch the water."

"I want to see what has happened to Lúthien," Daeron thought, and he looked into the pool.

Rather alarmingly, the water seemed to grow dark. Then stars appeared within it. One was unfamiliar and brighter than all the rest. Then the scene changed, and he was was looking at a range of snow-capped mountains. Then, finally, he saw Lúthien. She was lying in the grass beside a small stream and laughing. White blossoms of niphredil framed her dark hair. A shadow ran across her, as though something had passed beside her just out of view.

"I know that stream!" Daeron cried. "It begins among the hemlock to the east, and from there runs to the Sirion." He lept to his feet. "Thank you, Lady! I know where to find her now." He raced out of the room.

"She is in no danger!" Melian called out to him, but he was already gone. "At least," she sighed, "not yet."


	3. Among the Hemlock-Umbels

Daeron had greatly underestimated the length of this stream. It had been early afternoon when he had begun following it looking for Lúthien, and it was now well into the night. He was grateful at least that the moon was near full, for in his haste he had brought no torches or other means of making light. He was about to turn back, and leave the rest of his search until the next day, but then he saw a patch of white on the ground ahead of him, shining like snow in the moonlight. Niphredil. He was getting close then. Niphredil tended to spring up wherever Lúthien passed, as though the earth itself were glad to be near her. He pressed on with a renewed urgency, and then, at last, he heard an unmistakable voice, clear and musical.

"It's getting late," he heard Lúthien say, "I must go, or I fear my father may begin to worry."

A second voice spoke then. "Can you not stay a little longer?" it asked. The voice was harsh and had a strange accent, unlike any Daeron had ever heard in Doriath. With some surprise, he realized it was the voice of a man. What was a man doing in Doriath? Thingol's decree said men could not enter, and Melian's power enforced it. Something strange indeed was happening.

"How much longer would you have me stay?" Lúthien asked.

"Oh, just the next fifty years or so," replied the man.

Lúthien laughed. "Oh, is that all then?"

"Well, I have heard that is not such a long time in the eyes of the firstborn," the man insisted.

"It is still a long time to sit in a clearing."

"It does not seem nearly long enough to me, but I fear it is all the time I can offer you," the man said sadly.

"Then this is a strange reversal of how our kinds measure time," commented Lúthien. "But what happens in 50 years? Why is that all the time you can offer me?"

"I will be an old man, if I am even alive at all in that time," the man explained.

"Really?" Lúthien said with surprise. "But you seem so young now! Just how short are men's lives?"

"About sixty or seventy years, if one does not fall to injury or sickness," the man told her. "Though it seems that war takes most of us these days."

"Less than six dozen? That is all?"

"I knew one woman who lived to be eighty-three, but that was unusual."

"Your lives must seem so urgent," Lúthien said. "It must be a constant rush to try to accomplish everything you want in so short a time."

"For many, yes," the man replied. "Not for me though. I had accomplished everything I wanted the first day you held my hand."

"Then I think you should be more ambitious," Lúthien cooed. Then there was a sound, soft and gentle, but it hit Daeron's ears as an axe hits a tree. She had kissed him. That was all Daeron could bear to listen to. In a daze, he set off back to Menegroth.


	4. A Midnight Message

Daeron's head was spinning as he made his way back to Menegroth. Why had Lúthien kissed that man? Half of Doriath had tried to court her at one time or another, and she had rejected all of them. But now this man comes by and she kisses him. He was little more than a child. All men were. What could she possibly see in him that could not be found in another elf?

No, something else was going on here, it had to be. This man could not have won her heart, when so many others had failed. He had tricked her in some way, or she was too innocent to see him for what he really was. She could not truly love him. This had to be stopped.

So, when he reached Menegroth, he went straight to Thingol's chambers, and knocked as loudly as he could on the door. One of Thingol's guard answered.

"I need to speak to the king," Daeron told him, "I have something he needs to hear."

The guard looked at him with irritation. "Daeron, it is the middle of the night. No song is that important." He moved to close the door, but Daeron stopped him.

"This isn't about a song," Daeron protested. "It's about his daughter."

"Daeron, she isn't interested. I would urge you to find some other target for your affections," the guard impatiently.

"Lúthien is in danger."

The guard sighed. "Fine, come in."

Daeron was lead to a sitting room inside while the guard set off down the hallway which connected Thingol and Melian's chambers. He returned with Thingol, who had a long gray robe thrown hastily about him. His silver hair was tousled by sleep, but his eyes were alert.

"Belfaron said you had urgent news concerning Lúthien?"

"Yes, I'm afraid I do," said Daeron sadly. "She was out in the woods with a man."

"A man? Are you sure? How did a man get past our borders?" asked Thingol.

"I do not know," Daeron replied, "But I am certain it was a man. They were speaking together, and seemed very familiar with one another. And then, then man kissed her."

Shock and anger filled Thingol's face. "Did she kiss him back?"

"Yes," Daeron answered.

Thingol sighed wearily and rested his head in his hand. "Well, I suppose that is better, but it does make things more difficult," he said to himself. Then he turned to Daeron. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I will make sure that it ends here."


	5. The Judgement of Thingol

The sun was high and hot, and the flowers in the clearing where Daeron sat seemed to droop wearily away from it. They were overdue for a good rain, Daeron thought. But it was a nice enough day for those who weren't flowers. The branches rustled and the squirrels chattered as small clouds drifted by. Daeron sat on the dry grass and lazily played an étude on his flute, a repetitive little study on half notes and trills. Rather boring to listen to, but he was alone, and the squirrels did not seem to mind it.

The purpose of such a piece was to focus on his technique, but instead Daeron found himself thinking about Thingol's meeting Beren, the man who had dared to kiss Lúthien. It had been wise of the king not to deny Beren outright, but instead to set an impossible price for his daughter. Had Thingol denied Beren outright, he would have closed all honorable means forward to Beren. That would only invite him to take dishonorable ones. No, if that man claims to love Lúthien, let him prove it. Yes, it was sad that he would surely be killed in the attempt, but men die all the time.

Really, though, he was being very generous in assuming that Beren would actually attempt to get a Silmaril. Most likely, his boasts had been only to save face. He would probably decide that living to love some lesser woman would be preferable to dying for Lúthien. It didn't really matter which one Beren did though. The important thing is that he had left. Now things would go back to normal.


	6. Lúthien's Request

Daeron sat cross-legged on a low stool in the library, hunched over a large book written in flowing, Noldorin letters. It was a book about the Teleri across the sea. He had hoped to find some tale he could put into rhyme, but was beginning to think it was not such a good idea. It was best to leave tales of that strange land to those who had seen it. He would never really understand it.

"Daeron!" came an unmistakable voice. Daeron looked up, startled.

"Lúthien!" he replied. Lúthien's fair face was filled with fear and urgency. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"I need to speak with you." She glanced about. "Are we alone?"

"Yes," Daeron answered. "I'm afraid reading has never been very popular in this land. People say it's too impersonal."

"Good," said Lúthien distractedly looking about. Then, when she was convinced that they were indeed alone, she whispered, "I need your help. Something terrible has happened. Beren has been captured by the enemy."

"So he really did attempt to steal a Silmaril then?" Daeron whispered back, though he was not really sure why they were whispering.

"What? Of course he did."

"Well, that was admirable of him," replied Daeron, setting aside his book. "I'm sorry, this must be very hard for you. If there's anything I can do to help you through this difficult time -"

"I need you to help me rescue him," Lúthien interrupted.

Daeron paused. He had been expecting her to ask for a song, or a shoulder to cry on. Storming a fortress of the enemy was not really the kind of help he had been offering.

"Lúthien, I know this must be hard for you, but please, do not throw your life away over this," Daeron urged. "There is no need to add to the tragedy of this situation."

"He is there because of me, because he loved me. I cannot simply let him die."

"There are others who love you too, just as much as Beren."

"Others, like you?" Lúthien asked.

"Yes," Daeron answered.

"Beren was willing go to the heart of Angband because he loved me. Are you willing to do that as well?"

"I will not help you to get yourself killed!" exclaimed. Lúthien looked about in alarm.

"Please, speak more softly," Lúthien urged. "If my father hears of my plans, he will try to stop me. But you would not be helping me to get myself killed. I will be going with or without your help. But, I would be safer with your help. Do you care for my safety?"

Dread filled Daeron's heart. "Please, Lúthien, do not do this. Stay here, where it is safe."

"My mind is made up. I will be going to Tol-in-Gaurhoth to rescue Beren. Will you help me?"

Daeron hesitated. Then he looked down and sighed. "Meet me at the north entrance at dawn."

Lúthien smiled, "You will help me then?"

"I would do anything to protect you," Daeron answered.


	7. Daeron's Protection

It was three days after Lúthien had spoken to him in the library, and Daeron was sitting at his desk, writing. He had many songs that he had not yet put down on parchment. He did not really need to record them, he had no difficulty calling them to memory, but he enjoyed writing. A song ended with the final chord, but when he put down with runes it could linger on.

 _On oak trees' winding twisting twigs  
The shriveled sheaves are shuffling  
Red as rust and rustling  
Within the whispering wind._

 _Branches bare of summer sprigs  
Returning to a reverie  
Dwelling deep in memory  
Of laden, leafy limbs._

 _Gabbing geese on wind and wing  
Are fleeing summer's faltering  
And austere autumn's altering  
Of wide and watery homes._

 _Would that I like geese might fly  
And leave this land of chill and change  
To seek the south where stars are strange  
And winter is unknown._

He looked down at the strong, straight lines which were silently singing for anyone who chose to read them. Now this song could go on for as long as the parchment would last, constant and unchanging. Perhaps someday he might even find a way to record the melody as well as the words.

He sighed. He was not writing only for a love of letters. He found that it kept his mind from dwelling on things he would rather not remember. But now that he had finished the song he found his mind drifting back to the last time he had seen Lúthien. He had met her at the north entrance at dawn, just as they had agreed. But Daeron had not been alone. Thingol and his guards had been there as well. Daeron could still see the look of hurt on Lúthien's face when she realized that it had been Daeron who had told them of her plans.

"You told me that you would do anything for me!" she had yelled to him as the guards had taken her away.

"Anything to protect you," Daeron had corrected softly.

It had been awful, to hurt the one he loved like that. But what choice had he had? He could not have allowed her to leave for Angband. He could not have done anything else. Thingol would see that she stayed here in the forest where she belonged. She would be safe now, safe as a ship in a harbor. Yes, it had hurt, but her safety was more important than his happiness. Or even her happiness.


	8. Stony Mountains Cold and Grey

Lúthien was gone. She had slipped free of her guards one night and left to face the dark of Angband alone. His betrayal had not kept her safe, he had only doomed her to go to her death alone. How foolish he had been, to think she could be held in Doriath against her will. He had said that he loved her, but he had abandoned her.

He had searched for her, trying to fix his mistake. However worthless he may be, Lúthien did not deserve to die alone. He had gone even to within sight of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, but he had seen no sign of her. So, he had continued searching.

Well, he called it searching. Deep in his heart, he knew that wandering would be the more accurate term. After all, he could think of no reason she ever would have journeyed so far east. Maybe that was why he had gone this way. He was desperate to find her, but terrified that when he did she might be dead. He could not bear it if she were dead. So he had wandered on, both hoping for and fleeing from any evidence of her fate.

Now he found himself in a distant mountain range, and he found that his legs would bear him no further. He sank to his knees beside a small stream. He knew his body was failing. Even the mightiest elves have need of food and rest, and he had had neither for far too long. Besides, he was not mighty. He was only a lonely musician who had thought he was in love.

The wind blew from the east, trying to bear his spirit to the halls of waiting across the sea. But he would not go. Lúthien might be there, and then there would be no denying that he had let her die. He could not go west.

But he could not keep searching either. He was too weary even to rise, he could not keep walking.

So he lingered kneeling beside the stream, and sang, and though even breathing had become a wearisome task, his voice was clear as ever. He sang of Lúthien, every song he had ever written of her. And when he had run through all those, he made new ones. Long years passed and his body faded, but his spirit still lingered, singing of Lúthien beside the rushing stream. And in his mind and in his songs she was always as she had been, a maiden dancing lightly among the niphridil, immortal and unchanging, the fairest being in all the world.


End file.
